


everybody dies.

by rory_kent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depressed Sherlock Holmes, Depression, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Forgiveness, Greg Lestrade Whump, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, John is a Good Friend, Loss of Trust, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Feels Guilty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25985392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_kent/pseuds/rory_kent
Summary: what if Sherlock had actually shot Mycroft in TFP?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 23
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I usually pretend that TFP doesn't exist, but y'know what, acceptance is part of the grieving process so here we are
> 
> this first chapter is very short, just a set up until I have energy to finish this little minific/dialogue exercise

Incoming call 05:13

...

"Mycroft? Where'd you go, you snuck out like a teenager last night,"

"Family drama. Might be a few days,"

"Sherlock?"

"Sort of,"

"Right, well, tell him if he gets you hurt I'll kill him."

"I'll be _fine._ I'm not elderly,"

"Yeah, but you're not twenty either, now be careful, My,"

"I'll be careful,"

"And be sure to _eat._ Three times a day."

"I will,"

"You better, or I'll handcuff you to that big leather chair and feed you _._ "

"Don't tempt me,"

...

"Do you need me to help, with whatever it is you're doing?"

"No, Gregory, it'll be alright."

"You promise me?"

"You worrying again,"

"Says the man who stalks me on CCTV."

...

"You better come home in one piece, I mean it."

"Stop fussing. I'm hanging up now."

...

"Alright, I really am leaving,"

"I love you, My"

"I- I love you too,"

"You're sexy when you're nervous,"

"Gregory... stop it,"

"I don't want to,"

"Goodbye, Gregory,"

"I guess I have to figure out some sort of present for when you get home, and you seemed so keen on the handcuffs..."

"Hang up the phone!"

"You know, I was thinking, you call me daddy so much, maybe we could get an ankle-biter of our own,"

"Gregory, I need to go now,"

"We could name her Sherlock,"

"Oh he'd detest that,"

"And you're smiling about that, aren't you?"

"Alright. I _have_ to go now,"

"Goodbye, love, you better be home soon or I'm redecorating your office,"

"Don't touch my office,"

"The _lighting_ , Myc! I get a migraine every time I'm in there!"

"Goodbye, _goldfish_ ,"

"You flatter me,"

...

Call Terminated 05:18


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock swallowed, sucking in a breath, his eyes wandering the night sky, holding his knuckles tight in his pockets. He wavered, the little forget-me-nots at his feet brushing across his trouser cuffs.

_No flowers. My request._

"He loves flowers, you know," Sherlock whispered, "I always used to mock him for it," He paused, swallowing thickly, "I mocked him for everything," The transfer to past-tense couldn't be more palpable. 

"Yeah, you did," John said plainly, holding his orange blanket tight around his shoulders, pinching the rough fabric between his fingers as he twitched, blinking and looking away. 

"I was merciless,"

"You were his brother, Sherlock,"

There was silence and Sherlock bit his lip. 

"He didn't mean those things he said back there," Sherlock said quickly, willing his voice not to snap. Caring is not an advantage. Caring is not an advantage. John looked up quizzically and Sherlock looked down to his feet. "He always thought the best of you,"

"I don't know about that," John's lips turned into a bitter smile, his face now wrinkled with lines. Sherlock could name each one. _You died. You came back. She died. You killed her._ "Kidnapped me a bit more than is usually considered friendly,"

"Yeah well, that's how he says I love you," Sherlock paused, grimacing, his mouth tasting of acid," _said_ ,"

John hmmed, shuddering and clutching his blanket tighter as police milled about. He looked up and almost gasped. Sherlock had quite suddenly gone ashen pale, his feet trapped in the sopping dirt, his mouth open slightly.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"I- I-" John turned to look where Sherlock's glassy eyes were locked and felt his stomach churn. The silver-haired man smiled as he approached, but his chocolate eyes were fearful, illuminated by the flickering blue light.

"Oh," John breathed.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Sherlock!" The DI called as he came closer, his face hopefully cheerful, "John, my god, you look chilled to the bone, y'alright?"

"I'm alright, Greg," John smiled gently. God, John was so good at these things. Doctors always were. Sherlock pressed his fingernails into his palms, squeezing until the crescent marks drew blood, his fingers damp with it.

"Lestrade- I-"

"Where's your brother off to, that berk, did he get himself hurt, I swear to God," Greg looked to the ambulance and shook his head before Sherlock reached out suddenly and grasped him by the wrist, fingers digging into his skin. He let go suddenly and his eyes went wide when he saw the blood that had rubbed off his hand onto Greg's sleeve and it was almost too much. 

In fact, it was too much. Far too much. The air was suddenly chilled on his cheeks, and he furrowed his brows, touching his bloodied fingers to his cheek, and dear God, he was crying. 

Crying?

"Christ, 'Lock, you're crying, what's going on?" Greg's voice was wavering, his false bravado weakening as he held tight to his friend, ignoring the smear of scarlet on his white dress shirt. 

"M-My-" Sherlock whispered, his voice catching in his throat in something horrible and unprecedented as a sob, his lip trembling and his knees weakening. Lestrade barely caught him as Sherlock collapsed, grasping forward and hiding these shameful tears in the cinnamon, dusky smell of the DI as he eased him down as Sherlock sunk to his knees in the mottled dirt. 

" _Sherlock_ ," John admonished, rushing to his side and he swatted their hands away, bowing his head and grasping his hands to Lestrade's knee hallows and letting his tears dampen the man's trousers, his dark curls hiding his eyes and sticking to his blustery cheeks. Lestrade scowled, stepping back and grasping Sherlcock's shoulders.

"What's going on?" He growled, his voice broken, snapped in two. Sherlock closed his eyes, shaking his head, and the DI clasped his hand into a fist of Sherlock's belstaff. "What is going on, Sherlock, tell me _now_ ,"

"My brother," Sherlock whispered, "I killed my brother,"

"You," Greg whispered, stepping back, brows knit, eyes searching, confused, "what?"

"I shot him," Sherlock's voice wobbled, just a touch louder, taking a tentative look upwards, his eyes pale and so vulnerable. Like the junkie he'd helped through rehab, the shivering trembling man who writhed on his living room floor and begged him to make the pain go away. Lestrade let out his breath, trembling and stepping back again, eyes wide. 

"No, Sherlock, it's not funny," Greg whispered, looking to John and smiling, "No, that's not funny," He laughed, his heart throbbing in his chest, his feet barely keeping him from falling through the cracks. 

"Greg," John said softly, reaching for the taller man, who shook his head, his lips tight and his eyebrows knit. 

"No, no, Sherlock, this is _not_ funny," He shouted, grasping the kneeling shadow of a man by his lapels and shaking him, "where's Mycroft?"

"He's gone, Greg," John said calmly, reaching out and grasping his arm, Sherlock's head limp on his shoulders, trembling with silent cries.

"No he's not, _you_ were dead, and then you weren't," Greg said suddenly, eyes wide, "Yeah, you arsehole, you faked your own death. He faked it for you, and I want in on it this time. I want to know where he is,"

"I shot him, Lestrade, John saw it." Sherlock whispered, his voice solid and cold, perhaps that would be a comfort, he thought. If Sherlock could be strong, maybe Greg could too. The DI looked to John who nodded.

"Greg, why don't you sit down," John said calmly.

"You shot him?" He said softly, looking down at Sherlock hopefully, as if maybe he would denounce it now.

"Yes,"

"Why would you-" He faltered, his chest heaving, "do that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's heart stopped as John opened his mouth, and he looked up firmly, his jaw set and his eyes dry.

"I hated him,"

"I'm sorry?" Lestrade growled, and John gave Sherlock a look as if he was insane. 

_You lie all the time. It's like your mission._

What was one more?

"Reptilian, overweight piece of human filth," Sherlock said firmly, eyes fiery as if challenging, "I've always despised him." 


	3. Chapter 3

_"Sherlock," John scowled and Sherlock stood, calmly and stately, adjusting his lapels and staring down his friend, eyes gleaming. Sociopath._

_"You-" Gregory paused, looking to John and back, his fists clenched at his sides, "You bastard,"_

_The first punch had been obligatory. The second, third, fourth, tenth, were purely for his sake. His knuckles were raw and bloody as he hit his friend, over and over and Sherlock didn't fight back. Just lay there like a corpse as Greg continued his assault, knuckles connecting with those idiotic cheekbones and those fucking eyes and that fucking mouth. The bastard. John was screaming, pulling at Greg to stop, but he couldn't stop. Nobody could stop him. Not even the feeling of bones cracking beneath him as he kicked and stomped and scratched at him, tears welling in his eyes. EMTs and Police officers were pulling at him but he kept pushing, Mycroft was gone. Mycroft was gone._

_Mycroft was gone._

_"Enough!" John finally gained purchase on the older man, shoving him back and giving Sherlock a harsh glare. "Sherlock that is enough!" They shared a look, but Greg didn't care. He was seething, his teeth grit as the detective wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips soaked in blood. "This is no way to deal with this!" John shouted at both of them, examining this broken friend on the grass._

_"You killed him!" Greg sobbed, voice broken, "Donovan was right, you bloody freak, you sociopath, you killed him!" The heap of skin and curls didn't move, didn't say anything, and Greg growled. "Say something, you idiot, and no lies. I know you better than that,"_

_"It was me or Mycroft, Greg," John said, voice soft and gentle, "It wasn't his fault. It was the sister, the secret one, she did this, not Sherlock," Greg's stomach sunk to the floor as he looked at his handiwork, the bloodied, broken man at his feet trembled, trying not to move, as if he expected more._

_As if he believed he deserved more._

_"That doesn't make it okay," Greg keened, "It's not okay!"_

_"I know it's not okay, Greg, but it is what it is," John said soothingly, firmly, in his Captain's voice._

Greg couldn’t catch his breath, scrubbing at his chin with such force he was starting to turn pink. He grunted, fumbling about for his keys. There was a knock on the door and he gasped, quite taken aback before he saw that floof of chocolate curls and sweet brown eyes. He rolled down his window.

”Y’alright boss?” Sally said kindly, looking just a tad concerned. 

”I’m fine, Donovan,” He nodded, half heartedly pulling his lips into a smile. “I’ll see you Monday,” He rolled up the window before she could counter. He didn’t need it. Not right now. He got the keys in and turned it, before letting his forehead fall against the leather of the wheel, his breath catching with each inhale. God he was in shock. Fuck. His hands trembled as he pushed open the door and slid off the drivers seat, feet barely catching him as he stood.

”Donovan?” 

“Yes boss?” 

”Could I trouble you for a ride home?” 

* * *

He stood uneasily in the lift, his hand twitching at his side, the other pressed against the wall to keep him upright. He'd lost friends. He'd lost colleagues. Policemen often do. He'd seen the faces of the dead a thousand times. He'd smelt the crisp of rotting flesh. But none of them had made his stomach churn like-

"Fuck," He whispered, eyes watering, his shoulders slumping forward and his forehead came to rest on the wall of the lift, his breathing ragged and his throat burning. He fumbled about his pockets for his mobile, his fingers inadvertently grazing the small lighter he still carried around, his breath catching at it's cool metal. 

_"I really ought'a quit, y'know, I'm a horrible influence on you," He had muttered, legs wrapped in the silk covers of Mycroft's bed, sitting up against the headboard, fag glowing orange between his lips._

_"I wouldn't mind," The ginger had mumbled, curling himself up into his lap, head resting on Greg's thigh, nose pressed into his hip. He laughed, warm and sweet and he ran his fingers through his lover's hair as a ribbon of smoke billowed in the air._

_"Oh yeah?"_

_"Does wonders for your health, I hear,"_

_"Does it now?" Greg took a long drag and reached across the bed to the nightstand, putting out the cigarette and using both hands to rub at Mycroft's temples._

_"Lengthens lifespan exponentially,"_

_"And who'd want me around too long?" He chuckled and the younger man nuzzled at his hipbone, and Greg's hands roamed his back, as if to count the little clusters of freckles which he found adorable._

_"I would," He mumbled, quite seriously. "In fact, I want to go first."_

_"Your wish is my command," Greg smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead, lips lingering on his warm sated skin._

"Fuck!" He groaned, pressing his head further into the cool metal of the walls, knuckles aching. He pulled out his mobile in trembling fingers, trying to ignore the scabbing bruises on his fists as he typed.

_new message to: Molly_

_I want to see the body. I'll be in tomorrow at 8._

His phone dinged almost instantly, the blue glow casting harsh shadows on his face.

_new message from: Molly_

_John texted me, are you alright?_

_-_

_I'm fine._

_-_

_I'm coming over. I'll be there in 5._

Greg let out a huffed breath and his lips turned into something resembling a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly chewed on her lip nervously, cold bleary nose tucked into her scarf as she walked up the pavement to Greg's building. The stars flickered as she stood up on the step, pressing the buzzer that read _G. Lestrade._ Before it could answer, the door swung open to reveal her friend. 

Thirty minutes in and he already looked awful.

"Sorry to scare you, but I just- I put the key in but I-" He muttered, his hair muffled and his chin scratched and pink. His eyes were dull, flat, blinking and searching about as if he couldn't see clearly. His keys dangled from his trembling fingers, jingling like bells as he tried to illustrate.

"No, no trouble, here, let me help," Molly snatched his key ring and stepped in to the hall, taking the stairs, her pony tail swishing as she climbed briskly, slow footsteps behind her. She reached Greg's flat and turned the key, pushing open the door. Gregory followed her, as if it weren't his house. In fact, Molly was starting to doubt it was. There was no sign that anyone had lived here in weeks- no dishes in the sink, and upon further inspection, no dishes in the cupboards as well. The mantle was empty of the photographs that usually watched over the lounge, and Molly was slightly glad, because that dreadful Christmas drinks party outfit was still mortifying to think about. 

"Greg, you don't live here." Molly said, brushing her pink manicured finger across the dusty back of the sofa. The DI bit his lip, his eyes still dull and almost confused. He nodded and stepped about, still in his coat, not looking too closely at anything.

"Yeah- well, I uh, me and- we were, the house, I didn't want to go there, not yet anyway," Molly nodded and grasped him by the shoulder, tugging off his jacket.

"Alright, well, take off your coat, sit down and I'll order us some food-" She gasped, his sleeves were crisped with carmine-brown. "Is that, his? She said, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide. The DI looked quizically before glancing down and blinking. Numbly examining his hands, were they his? Didn't look like it, they looked rather foreign, and he noticed the large blood stains on his bright white work-shirt.

"Oh," His lips quirked, "No, Sherlock's,"

_Sherlock._

His fists clenched, his knuckles aching, some of the scabs splitting and droplets of crimsons drizzled down his tanned fingers. 

"Oh my god! You're bleeding, here, sit down, sit down," She shuffled him around to the sofa, pushing him into the cushions, and he sat like a stone as she riffled through her handbag. Women carried everything in those things. She retrieved a packet of antiseptic wipes and butterflies. She pulled at his hands, her delicate fingers gentle with his callused, gruff skin as she wiped away the fresh blood. 

Sweet Molly. Didn't even ask. 

"Sherlock," Greg said softly, gesturing to his knuckles, "I did this to Sherlock," She didn't react, or she didn't try to. Her ponytail drooped to one side but she didn't say anything, delicately applying bandages and rubbing her thumb across them. 

"So you two-were?" She tapped the silver band that encircled his ring finger and he looked at it, huffing a laugh, his eyes fresh with tears.

"Yeah, yeah we were."

* * *

_"Gregory, this is obscene," Mycroft scowled as he came into the kitchen, his three-piece suit looking extra smart today. Greg grinned, handing Mycroft a plate of breakfast, and his lip curled as the smell of bacon and beans and sausage and eggs hit his nose._

_"It's breakfast," The silver fox smiled, wriggling his hips as he set the plate on the opposite side of the bench._

_"I don't eat breakfast," Greg smiled as he pressed a warm sloppy kiss to his cheek, tongue just slipping out to graze his ear and the Government shuddered, caving in on his neck at the ticklish feeling._

_"It's the most important meal of the day," Greg said with those big brown eyes that would not be denied._

_"That's not true,"_

_"Darling, if Michelle Obama says it, it has to be true."_

_"While I hate to argue with iron-clad reasoning and logic," Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I'm not hungry, and I have an early meeting,"_

_"I'll suck you off."_

_"That's a horrible compromise,"_

_"If it gets you fed, I'd stay under that desk of yours all day long," Greg whispered in that gravely voice, and Mycroft swallowed nervously, "Open," The ginger's eyes widened but he obeyed, a forkful of food placed in his mouth and a kiss on his forehead. He reluctantly chewed and swallowed, wiggling his head as if to say-_ see? I can eat. 

_"So I have reservations tonight,"_

_"I know," Mycroft said casually and Greg rolled his eyes at his silly man and his omniscience. "A bit on the expensive side, I was confused,"_

_"Well," Greg blushed, looking up sheepishly, "I figured you'd enjoy that," He plopped another bite into his boyfriend's mouth, the ginger's eyebrows knit as he chewed._

_"-wait, wait," His eyes sliced over Greg, the new cufflinks, the nervous wrinkle in his forehead, the excitement in his eyes, wearing his best shoes and second best trousers, not usually what he wore to the office..."You're proposing marriage tonight." Mycroft's mouth breathed the words but his mind was spinning around them like a top._

_exhibit_ _A) Gregory Lestrade. Detective Inspector, BAMF. Ruggedly handsome and fittingly gregarious._

_proposing to_

_exhibit B) Mycroft Holmes-the beak nosed, balding, obese paperweight who couldn't go out on a cloudy day without sunblock?_

_By rules of simple mathematics, the equation was unbalanced._

_"Darling? Darling are you alright?"_

_"F-fine, I'm fine,"_

_"It's only that, I think you're, special, the only one in the world, and I- I figured you deserved the fancy things, especially if I'm asking you to marry someone like me,"_

_Someone plain. Someone middle class. Someone unworthy of such a refined and regal and graceful creature as Mycroft Holmes._

_The air was thick and the food was cooling quickly. Greg dig through his pocket and pulled out the box. Mycroft scowled at it. It's presence was not expected._

_"I had to have Donovan pick them up for me," Greg laughed, itching at the back of his neck, "she's getting a pay rise"_

_"Yes."_

_"The payrise?" Greg tilted his head and Mycroft didn't look up, his finger reaching out and grazing the embossed_ GARRARD _._

_"No," Mycroft whispered, "No, not to that."_

_"Oh," Greg nodded slowly before realization struck, "Oh!" His eyes widened and his cheeks lit with a blushed smile._

_"Yes,"_

_"Oh thank God," Greg smiled, his cheeks boyish and blushed as he pulled Mycroft in for a kiss, grasping at his ears and pressing their lips together with such ferver he bit his tongue by accident. "Chritst, Myc, you're serious?" He panted, and the Goverment nodded, slowly, eyes searching and vulnerable as he looked up._

_"If you're certain," He said softly, and the DI laughed, heartily and sweet as he pulled them together again, pressing a trail of kisses along his cheeks, from one ear to the other, his hands grasping his neck and Mycroft blushed, the skin warming beneath Greg's lips._

_"I've never been more certain about anything in my life," He breathed onto the pale, freckled skin of his fiance, their breath mixing in the space between them, their foreheads pressed together. Mycroft closed his eyes gently, and Greg couldn't help but admire those soft dark eyelashes, the younger man looked as if he were soaking up rays of sunlight, his mouth slightly open._

_This, right here, was forever. Greg realized with a start, his heart full and his smile wider than it had ever been. Forever had a nice ring to it._

_"Gregory," Mycroft said softly, his lips full and red and still swollen from their kiss. The name fell from his lips as if it were the answer, finally, to a difficult puzzle or maths problem, as if finally, the world made sense. eureka! "Gregory,"_

_The DI shyly pulled open the box and dropped the matching silver bands into his palm, holding them between them, giggling slightly._

_"I can't believe I just proposed," He whispered, and Mycroft smiled, admiring the rings and reading their inscriptions._

In perpetuum et unum diem

_and_

Ego protector tuus sum

_Forever and a day, I will keep you. Mycroft's chest ached with something- something plebeian and pedestrian and human._

_"This doesn't get you out of eating your breakfast," Greg chuckled, and Mycroft sighed._

_"Shame," The DI rolled his eyes and held up the fork again, stealing a hastened kiss before placing it inside his mouth._

* * *

"Greg, did you hear me?" Molly pat his cheek, her eyes deep with concern as she examined him. He blinked, eyes focusing again and finding her again. "I said, Chinese or Indian?"

"Not hungry," He said softly, his heart burning, aching, throbbing with pain, his throat filled with bile. Molly took this in stride and decided Indian was the proper choice, pulling out her phone and ordering as Greg sat still, his eyes still glued on his hands. His ring was smeared with dried blood that caked into little brown flakes.

His phone dinged but he didn't get it. He didn't move. Molly finished their order and reached across his lap to grab his phone, knowing he wouldn't read it but that it might be important. 

"It's Donovan," She said sweetly, "She said that you aren't allowed into work for at least a week,"

Greg didn't say anything and Molly sighed, placing a hand on his knee. Sometimes she could get lost in her work, seeing so many dead people, that she forgot that each liver to be weighed and autopsy report to write up had a family, friends, everyone had someone. Even Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Greg didn't touch the food when it arrived. Molly had dug around and found the remote to the TV, finding some baking show. Greg didn't argue with her. He didn't really like those sort of things, but he didn't want her to be put out. He didn't want to be alone. 

"I got extra Naan because I remember you liked it," Molly said cheerfully, opening the package and putting some on his plate, which had been equally ardous to locate. 

Greg nodded mutely, remember the night after Sherlock's 'death' they had spent at Baker Street with John, watching crap TV and babysitting him.

He numbly realized that's what they were doing to him. 

But it wasn't fair, because Sherlock _wasn't_ dead, he came back. 

It wasn't fair because Mycroft was-

Greg stopped, clenching his fists and looking down at his plate, full of colourful food that could not in any universe be considered healthy. His stomach churned, but he took a bite for Molly's sake, the irony of roles reversed not lost on him. Sherlock might think he was idiot. Maybe he was. What did it matter because the smartest and the wisest and the sweetest man in the world was- 

He cursed himself again and leaned forward, his shoulders slumped and his back aching. An old man. An old, lonely, pathetic man. 

* * *

After a few rounds of genoise sponges and raspberry barbars and the takeaway thoroughly picked at the doorbell rang and Molly stood quickly, buzzing them in without checking who it was. Greg might have noticed that if he wasn't halfway between shock and sleep. 

A few minutes later the door opened and Greg poked his head over his shoulder to see a silver-haired man in his living room, chatting with Molly. John. Good, that's good, he thought absently, head rolling back into place to pretend to be watching the TV. 

"I've got to go in to work, Greg, I'll see you tomorrow," Molly said kindly, pressing a kiss to his hair and wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace. John smiled curtly as she left, the door shutting behind her and the boys alone. The Doctor set down his bag and sat next to Greg on the sofa, eyeing the programme. 

"You don't have to stay, John," Greg said softly, faking a smile and rubbing a hand through his hair. The shorter man shook his head. "As you can see, Molly's got me covered," John smiled gently and laughed. 

"Figured you might want something stronger," He pulled out the bottle of Whiskey he'd brought along, and Greg sighed in relief. 

"Bless you, John," The doctor grinned and pulled out the two glasses he'd also brought along, pouring them both two fingers and grabbing the remote. He flicked the channel to a football match and Greg's head rolled back against the sofa.

"I'm a horrible doctor, aren't I?" John said as he sipped his drink, the DI already finished his. 

"Maybe," He shrugged, "But a good friend."

They smiled and the sounds of football lulled the silences, the Detective's insides numbing at the sharp burning alcohol that warmed his throat. 

"How's Sherlock?"

"He-" John paused, looking Greg in the eyes, "he's not good at this sort of thing,"

"I just feel awful, for what I did," Greg said softly, "Poor kid's probably torn himself to shreds already," He bit back something sharp and emotional and swallowed it, "He didn't need my help," 

John nodded in agreement and knocked back another glass, appalled at his own rate of consumption. The doctor carried his own demons too. 

"Can you, tell me," Greg said numbly, "Tell me what happened?"

John looked over, his eyes filled with guilt and his wrinkles pinched around his face. 

* * *

_The empty room was cold as John entered it, Sherlock's hand trembling with the gun still in it._

_"It’s not empty, Sherlock. You’ve still got the gun, haven’t you? I told you you’d need it, because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice. It’s make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most – John or Mycroft? It’s an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson?"_   
  
_"Eurus, enough!" Mycroft growled._   
  
_"Not yet, I think. But nearly."_

_The room was tense and John's heart was racing._

_"Well?"_

_"Well, what?"_

_"We’re not actually going to discuss this, are we?"_

_"I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. You’re a fine man in many respects. Make your goodbyes and shoot him."_

_"What?" John scowled, stepping into the light, watching as Sherlock stared at the floor,_

_"Shoot Doctor Watson. There’s no question who has to continue from here. It’s us; you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires_ brainpower _, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don’t prolong his agony; shoot him."_

_"Do I get a say in this?" John's fists clenched._

_"Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country," Mycroft explained, "_ _I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours."_

_It hit him suddenly, that Mycroft wasn't just being a prick. That Sherlock's life depended on Mycroft, what did John have to offer this?_   
  
_"Shit." John whispered, "He’s right. He is, in fact, right." John's voice wobbled and he bit his lips standing straight, his eyes welling with tears. Fuck._

_"Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with and we can get to work." Mycroft leered and John's heart raced, looking up at Sherlock calmly, steadily. He could take this. Like a soldier. Always the soldier._

_"God! I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one, the idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him."_

_"Stop it."_

_"Look at him. What is he? Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You’ll find another."_

_"Please, for God’s sake, just stop it!" Sherlock said lowly._

_"Why?"_

_"Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing."_

_"Ignore everything he just said. He’s being kind. He’s trying to make it easy for me to kill him. Which is why this is going to be so much harder." The gun shakily was pointed to the elder Holmes and John bit his lip in horror. Mycroft only smiled, eyes deep and sad._

_"You said you liked my Lady Bracknell."_

_"Sherlock. Don’t." John whispered._

_"It’s not your decision, Doctor Watson."_

_"Not in the face, though, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society."_

_"Where would you suggest?" Sherlock's eyebrows raised, almost into a smile._

_"Well, I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me," He grinned, adjusting his tie "I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but why don’t we try for that?"_

_"I won’t allow this." John held out a hand and Sherlock's face twitched in pain, his hand shaking even more._

_"You must, Doctor, but you must promise to look after him for me, both of them," Mycroft looked to Sherlock with kind eyes, and the younger Holmes heart raced. This wasn't really happening. It couldn't be._

_"He's not as strong as he looks," John bit his lip and gasped as Mycroft took his hands in his own, looking at him seriously, slipping off his ring and giving it to John. "promise me?"_

_"Yeah, of course, I promise, Mycroft," John said softly, looking at the engraved band that sat in his palm like a lead weight. He looked up to the ginger man who only smiled kindly before looking to Sherlock._

_"Goodbye, brother mine,"_


	5. Chapter 5

There was a ghost in the corner of the morgue. A pale, diaphonus shadow in a cape of darkness, his eyes grey windows into a void, keeping watch. The body on the slab was not what it used to be- not that it used to be much really. Always a chubby lad, he was, and never really lost those pudgy apple cheeks and sense of deficiency. People make such strange associations, he thought, between size and worth. 

The ghost remembers a time when he wasn't soft around the middle. Those were dark days for this person, whose skin was a milky shade of grey now, his eyes shut to give others a sense of rest. 

But he wasn't resting. Sherlock knew this. He was dead, not asleep, and the urge to shake him, nudge him, to whisper things into his ear was unhelpful. The Irish voice that clawed it's place onto his shoulder mocked him.

_Have you solved the case, Sherlock?_

_Victim, method, motive. You're bright, go on, figure it out smarty-pants._

Sherlock snorted, his lungs tight. He hurt. His skin ached and his joints were sore and his lip was constantly splitting back open. John had put him to bed nice and sweet, with a stolen kiss when he thought the bruised and stitched up detective was asleep. 

Sherlock did not deserve such luxuries as Johnkisses. 

Not, not now. 

_Where's your precious morphine now, huh?_

No. No drugs. Never drugs, ever again. Not if he could help it. Numbed ecstasy was a privilege and Sherlock did not deserve it.

* * *

 _The pain was like fire, radiating through each vein as he stumbled, the cold pavement unforgiving as he barely kept upright, his clothes dirty and his person even more so. Physically, but in other ways too. The condemned house was quiet tonight, not a lot of customers, good._ That's good, _he could barely think, his mind fuzzy and his eyes weak. Was there an earthquake happening? Did London get earthquakes? He looked to his hands, spasming and shaking and realized perhaps it did._

_He wasn't sure._

_"What'll it be, Will?"_

_The words filtered through the throbbing in his ears and he blinked, three times in rapid succession._ Oh hello, Maurice _, his mind supplied as he focused on the face of his dealer._

_"The- usual," He choked._

_"How much you got to pay for it?"_

_Sherlock trembled, eyes wide as he shook his head. Maurice understood._

_"You go on and fix yourself up and I'll be waiting," Sherlock nodded, his knees buckling as he approached the goods, spread out on a coffee table with a wobbly leg. The detective pulled out a rolling paper, too weak to work his syringe, perhaps later, he mused as he carved out two neat little lines of white sugary powder._

_Wouldn't want to mix that in your tea, he laughed._

_Cocaine_ _was like a person he thought. And as close to a friend as Sherlock was capable of having._

_The rush hit him slowly, inhalation often worked that way. No clear, waterfall rush like the good stuff. A bit more a jaded fall down a cliff, rocky and tumbling with a splash at the end._

_He let himself fall backwards, pliant and ready for it to take him. For Maurice to take his fee and for the numbness to seap into his bones, but it didn't. It wasn't- something was wrong and he was heavy, so heavy, and warm. Rather warm._

_"M-M-" He whispered desperately, his voice catching as his heart raced. It was racing and racing and racing and it was tearing itself to pieces, a rocket trapped on the launch pad and every muscle in his body contracted with it's pace. Faster. Faster. Faster, each thump of blood pumping through his body like a wave of electric current._

_He tried to scream as his clothes were taken from his body, peeled away and leaving him exposed, naked and cold and hot and oh god his heart_ burned. _A white hot flame in his ribcage that was going to singe every cell in his skin to a crisp._

_The man inside of him didn't seem to mind. Didn't seem to mind that Sherlock was in cardiac arrest, or that perhaps he should've told him that he'd been sampling out heroin tonight, not cocaine. But the lad was so good, so pretty, so tight, that he didn't care._

_Sherlock realized suddenly that his heart was quiet. He blinked, looking down at his chest and frowning. Hey, stop that, come on, it's not that hard._

_"Get off of him, or I will shoot you," Came a voice and Sherlock cried out, his voice silent his eyes desperate. "What has he taken?!"_

_Barely through the green and purple fog he saw someone, someone he knew. But who? Oh what does it matter! You're dead! Oh, right._

_It went dark for a while after that bit._

_He gasped as he was plunged back into the light, sitting upright and sucking in air. There were hands on his shoulders pulling him, kind hands wrapping around the back of his neck and easing him down and his head thumped against the cold stone floor. He let his head loll on his shoulders and found himself face to face with something soft. He pinched a bit of the bespoke fabric in his fingers._

_"This is nice," He mumbled, and the man only glared at him. Sherlock squinted to see clearer, "My-Mycroft?"_

_Yes, it was Mycroft but why? Mycroft was at school, and Sherlock was- where was he again?_

_"The ambulance is on it's way," Came the choked reply as his brother looked over him, examining his trembling features, his sweat-soaked curls stuck in clumps around razor sharp cheekbones. Sherlock punched at his chest, writhing on the ground in an expulsion of chemical energy. Adrenaline shot._

_"I'm fine! Don't n-need you," Sherlock stuttered._

_"We should get you dressed," Mycroft's eyes were lined with tears. Sherlock grit his teeth as the pangs of withdrawal hit him instantly. What had he given him?!_

_"Hurts!" He breathed, tears on his cheeks, rolling back and forth, hands grasping for the fabric of Mycroft's coat, "H-hurts!"_

_Mycroft grimaced, keeping his hands into fists. The seizures couldn't be helped, he couldn't help. All he could do was watch, watch his little brother's agony. The fact that Sherlock had done this to himself was of no comfort._

_"My-Myc'oft, make it s-stop," He screamed, his eyes frantic, "Just a little, Mycroft, just a little and it'll s-stop, p-please," Sherlock pulled himself across the bare concrete floor, his skin catching as he tried to reach the table, yes, there was more._

_"Stop! Stop this, now!" Mycroft shouted, clasping Sherlock by his armpits and pulling him back as the addict kicked, wriggling in his grasp and wailing._

_"No! No! Let me go, please," He groaned, his head falling back against his brother's shoulder, still naked from the waist down, blood dribbling between his emaciated thighs. "please,"_

_"I'm not letting go, Sherlock, I've got you," Mycroft soothed as Sherlock whined, weakly resisting as EMT's began to usher in, and Mycroft lay him on the stretcher with kindess._

_The older man remembered tucking a baby into his crib, whispering promises into his ear- the tiniest ears he'd ever seen, previously not possible smallness._

_"I promise to be a good big brother, Sherlock, I promise,"_

* * *

Molly gasped when she flicked on the light. Sherlock, well, she'd never seen him like this. His face was dark with bruises, his eyes in hollow pits of purple, his lip split and dribbling blood onto his chin. His eyes were dull and glassy as he stared, unmoving, unflinching, his cheeks red and blustery. 

"Sh-Sherlock," She whispered, taking a singular step forward. "Sherlock you should be in hospital,"

"I am in hospital," He whispered, and Molly bit back her response, instead turning to her guest. They were a pale lot, the Holmeses, she mused, smiling smally and approaching the slab. She furrowed her brows and turned, ponytail swishing and eyes full of concern.

" _Sherlock_ ,"

"Did he tell you?" Molly's eyes widened. Sherlock sounded, broken. Completely split in two, his eyes fearful and his lip wobbling. 

"Tell me what?"

"Did Lestrade tell you, who did this?"

"No, Sherlock, he didn't," She said softly. "I don't think that's what matters," Sherlock scoffed, but didn't look away. 

"What matters, then?" 

"Family, friends, support,"

Silence. 

"You know I meant it, Molly," Sherlock said softly, so softly she could barely hear. 

"Meant what?" She swallowed and blushed, her cheeks thumping with red hot embarrassment and humiliation. He never did explain it. She honestly would rather he didn't.

"I love you," He said, "I love you and you've always counted to me, you're my friend, always."

"Why're you saying this?"

"Don't know, really." He said with a shrug, fists tight in his coat pockets. 

"I love you too, Sherlock, too much sometimes, but that's the point isn't it?" She looked fondly to Mycroft, and could just barely see him smiling. "Hateful, isn't it?" She said to him, because it felt right to have a joke with him. 

"I think I'm going to stay here, if that's alright?" 

"Of course that's alright, I doubt he'll need anything beyond the exam, and you should probably pick up his effects."

"Oh, right," Sherlock blinked, hot liquid in his eyes. 

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage._


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson slept lightly, Greg realized as he watched the doctor on his sofa. He felt awkward in this place- this wasn't his house anymore, it was empty and nothing and stale because it was before. He sat awake, through the small hours, sipping at the last of the whiskey. He didn't really notice the taste, just the burn that flamed at the back of his throat and numbed everything else.

His life was divided in two, he realized. Always was.

Before. 

After. He bit back bile and closed his eyes. 

He scribbled out a note and left. His feet numbly finding their way through the corridor, the light of dawn beginning to creep in through the lip of the door. It was going to be warm today, he should stop and get some sunscreen for-

He stopped, hand on the handle and cursed. He was splitting in two. He was supposed to be whole, now. The streets were quiet this morning. The cars were quiet. His ears were still ringing, he was just a bit more than pissed and his hands shook as he found his way to Barts. 

Ironic.

He didn't even have his keys, or his wallet, but nobody questioned him as he weaved through corridors, a few nurses begining the day shift giving him a look of concern.

He probably didn't look too hot. 

_"God, you're- beautiful." Mycroft said, his eyes wide and soft and his freckles glowing. Greg pressed a kiss to his forehead._

_"Whatever you say, darling,"_

_"I mean it," He whispered, hands hesitantly finding their place on his chest, like he still didn't trust himself to touch._

_"Touch me," Greg said softly into his ear, his breath warm and foggy and ticklish. "I'm your husband, you get to touch me"_

_"Not my husband yet," Mycroft whispered._

_Gregory's heart was achingly full._ _The younger man looked up, lip pulled between his teeth in that cute little thing he did, eyelashes fluttering as he pressed his hand to Greg's neck, the skin warm and tanned and he leaned in closer, their ties brushing together, and Mycroft almost caught his breath as he kissed Gregory's chin, gently and fearful and warm. Just a little bit wet._

_"Husband,"_

_"It sounds good, doesn't it?" Greg chuckled, hand resting in Mycroft's soft ginger hair as he pulled them in for a proper kiss. Suddenly the door burst open and Mycroft snapped away, cheeks tinged with scarlet, his eyes averted like a teenager. Greg only grinned and looked over his shoulder._

_"I- uh," John smiled, looking between them, "I got your text, what's up?" He paused, giving them an apologetic look before leaning into the hallway, "Sherlock, get over here, stop harassing Anthea!"_

_"You know that's not actually her name, don't you?" Sherlock quipped as he approached, and Greg smiled. Their boys looked so good right there, in the doorway, and he snapped his little brain camera. This was what he wanted to remember when they were_ both _grey, drooling out of the corners of their mouth and surrounded by grandkids and so very happy. His cheeks lit up with a grin as the woman who actually occupied a minor government position came in with a smile._

_"Are we ready to get started?"_

_"Started with what?" John said curiously, looking between everyone in confusion before settling on Sherlock, who looked like he might be having an aneurism. He wobbled and then collapsed into a chair._

_"You're-" John looked between them, the gear turning behind his eyes._

_"They're getting married John," Sherlock said, his cheeks pale._

_"Sherlock, y'alright kiddo? We thought you already knew!"_

_"Oh my god, you're actually-" John beamed, "Oh my god!" He rushed and wrapped Greg into a hug, "Wow, I mean, congratulations, mate, that's incredible,"_

_"I don't know how I feel about my brother being married,"_

_"Good, keep those feelings inside, it's a bit of a secret."_

_"Secret?" John furrowed his brows._

_"Just until we tell Mummy," Mycroft said softly, poking at a spot on the ground with his umbrella._

_"She'll probably die of shock," Sherlock grumbled._

_"Sherlock_ be nice _," John scolded before breaking into a second smile. "God, wow, this is- I mean,"_

_"Shall we begin?" The judge said kindly and Greg beamed, looking at Mycroft once more and nodding._

_"God yes,"_

Greg was pale as he approached the morgue. He sucked in a breath, steeled his nerves and strode quickly. His hands were tucked into his pockets, but they were shaking and he felt like he was going to vomit. 

The swinging doors were all that was left. Just push through, Greg, come on, it's easy. 

His feet didn't budge, his eyes were trapped on the door handle. He couldn't move. 

"Greg!" He gasped, sucking in a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Molly was standing on the other side of the door, holding it open, her face bright with shock.

"Christ, you scared me," Greg breathed, rubbing his fingers through his hair a bit harsher than strictly necessary. "Is, he-"

"Yes," Molly said, stepping around him and giving him a pat. "I'll give you some privacy," The door closed behind her with a click and Lestrade kept his eyes on the floor. The little drain in the middle. Cold cement. It was rather cold in here. 

_Look up._

No! 

_Gregory, please, you need to see this._

Stop it! He took a step forward, peeking up from his feet to the slab, slowly letting himself look at the man that lay there. His heart was sinking in his chest. No, no no no. 

Why was he doing this?

He wanted to turn and run away. He wanted to never think about this awful place again. His feet had other ideas and he approached, his hands shaky in the air, unsure what to do. His knees wobbled as he saw his skin. Constellations of freckles named in the midst of the night, when they were warm and sweaty and happy and exhausted and they were forever.

Suddenly it was too much and he wobbled, his feet swaying beneath him, his hands barely catching himself on the edge of the slab as he fumbled, his eyes blurry with thick tears that he blinked away, rubbing at his itchy eyes with his sleeve. 

"You promised me, My, you _promised_ me you'd be okay," Greg whispered, his voice craggy and breaking apart as he clenched his hands into fists, looking to the man who looked like he was sleeping, like he might just sit up and kiss him at any moment, "You promised."

* * *

Sherlock didn't cry as he snuck out of the morgue. He didn't cry on the street. He didn't cry as he opened the door, the 17 steps, he didn't cry once. 

Mycroft hated it when he cried. Mycroft _never_ cried. Mycroft was good. Mycroft saved him over and over unconditionally. 

Put Sherlock's life above his every time. 

And what had he done to repay him? 


End file.
